


five hundred miles away from home

by kadaransmuggler



Series: they've forgiven my mistakes [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, dorian meets the inquisitor, who he banged before he left minrathous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 22:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14458911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadaransmuggler/pseuds/kadaransmuggler
Summary: "A boy walks into the Chantry and Dorian cleaves a demon in two with the blade of his staff. There is a half-second of disorienting familiarity, and memories linger in the back of his mind. He remembers hair, black as night and soft as silk, and he remembers white sheets and golden eyes, and kissing like he wanted to drown."





	five hundred miles away from home

When Dorian leaves Minrathous, he does not cry. Instead, he holds his anger close to his chest, and tries not to think about his father as he shoves his clothes haphazardly into a bag. He lets his anger fuel him, and it is enough to keep him on his feet with dry eyes. He doesn’t dare to open his mouth to speak, knows it won’t be easy around the lump in his throat, knows it’ll all be over his voice breaks. He’d never felt so violated, so unworthy. 

_ Blood magic _ , he thinks, and his lip snarls up of its own accord. He was seven years old the first time his father talked to him about it, remembers sitting on the rug at Halward’s feet, his chin propped up on his hands, rapt as he listens to his father speak of temptation and things that could go wrong. Now he is almost thirty, and he is downsizing his life until it can fit in a single bag because his father had done the one thing he’d always been warned against. All of it to change Dorian, because nothing he was was good enough for his parents. For his father. It is a miracle he does not set the curtains on fire with his rage. He thinks, savagely, that he might like to see the whole palace burn to the ground.

His father is standing at the door of the palace when Dorian finally storms out. It ruins the exit he’d had in mind- something quiet, where his father would not know he is gone until long after supper, when he had started to maybe get worried. Dorian would have been long gone by then, and there would be no trail for his father to find him.

“Are you really going?” his father asks, disdain dripping from his mouth, and Dorian tightens his grip on his staff. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to ruin your  _ legacy _ ,” he spits, and then he shoves past him and into the bright streets of Minrathous. He thinks he hears his father calling for him, but he does not look back as he rounds the street corner. 

* * *

He finds himself in a tavern. He’s been here before, of course, it’s one of the few places he felt he could be himself. This time is different, because when Dorian leaves he will not be coming back. He knows he’s safe, too, because Halward Pavus would never risk coming here, so he finds the first pretty boy he sees and he buys him a drink.

Four drinks later, the wine heavy on his tongue, and the boy has him pinned against the wall of the upstairs hallway. There’s a knee between his thighs, a hand curling around his hip, and a tongue between his teeth, and the kisses are rough with a desperate edge, and Dorian finds that he isn’t thinking about his father at all. 

“I’ve got a room three doors down,” the boy purrs in his ear, and a shiver races down Dorian’s spine. The boy leans forward, nips at his neck before sucking a bruise into his skin. 

“Is that an invitation?” he asks, breathless, and it is all he can do to fist his fingers in the loose fabric of the boy’s shirt. He doesn’t recognize him, doesn’t have any idea what the boy’s name is. He’s too pale to be from Minrathous, and his eyes are an alluring gold that he’s never seen before, so he thinks he would have remembered this boy. He should have asked somewhere between the first drink and the first kiss, but Dorian knows he isn’t going to stay long enough for it to matter. 

“That depends,” the boy says, drawing back to take a breath. There is a gleam in his eyes, something playful and bright and full of desire and Dorian finds another shiver racing down his spine. He pulls the boy in for another kiss and stops, lips hovering, a smile curing them upwards. 

“On what?” he asks, almost innocently, and it’s refreshing to pretend to be coy. He lets their lips touch then, a wet open-mouthed kiss that leaves them both a little more disheveled, a little more eager. 

“If you want it to be,” the boy answers when Dorian finally pulls back. He’s a little less playful now, and the heat in his golden eyes makes warmth pool in the pit of Dorian’s stomach. 

“I think I’d rather like that,” Dorian says, flippant, but the boy is laughing as he presses another kiss against his lips, both hands coming down to his waist as he backs down the hallway, pulling Dorian with him. He follows eagerly, trusting the boy to know where he’s going, and seconds later he is pressed up against a heavy oaken door. The boy doesn’t seem to want to stop kissing him, fumbling blindly with the key until, finally, the door opens and they fall into the room. 

* * *

Dorian falls to his back on the bed, out of breath and spent. The sun has slipped beneath the horizon, and the only light in the room is the flickering of the fireplace. Usually, it would be lit with magestones, but neither of them had cared enough to light them, had only thought of tearing their clothes off and falling into the bed. The boy settles down beside him, black hair fanning out against the white sheets. Idly, Dorian realizes that the boy’s hair is longer than he had expected, hanging nearly to his shoulders. He’d thought it’d be shorter, once he’d pulled it from the ponytail. He had liked running his fingers through it.

“I suppose,” he says, after several minutes have passed, when their breathing has returned to normal, “that I should ask who you are.” He laughs, then, rolling onto his side to face him. The boy has a charming, crooked grin on his face, and all of a sudden Dorian wonders who has seduced who. 

“Usually, I’d keep it a secret. But you can call me Caspian, handsome,” he purrs, rolling over. They’re close, now, almost nose-to-nose, and it is the sort of intimacy that Dorian thought he would never have, that makes his heart ache if he lets his thoughts linger on it. Caspian reaches out, lets one hand rest on Dorian’s waist. 

“What a nice name. And what is the accent you’ve got?” he asks, curiously, innocently. He wonders who this man is, that he’s fallen into bed with, wonders what secrets lurk in the depths of those golden eyes. 

“Free Marches,” he answers, a little carelessly, like he knows he’s being reckless, and Dorian wonders who he is that he might hide his identity. 

“Well, Caspian, I think I needed that,” Dorian says. His voice is softer now, almost sleepy. 

“Mmm,” he answers, thumb stroking circles on Dorian’s hipbone. They both think about how they should get up, should put their clothes back on and go their separate ways, but instead Dorian curls closer, tucks his head underneath Caspian’s chin. He can hear his heart beating in his chest, a steady rhythm, and Dorian finds his eyes fluttering shut. 

* * *

He leaves before dawn, dressing in the dark. Caspian woke up before he left, long enough for a quick goodbye and an empty promise about doing it again. He checks his belongings, makes sure he has everything, and then he slips through the streets of Minrathous. The streets are asleep, but the docks are alive. He finds a ship to Orlais, hands over twice the amount the captain asked for, and stows himself onboard.

It is then that he realizes Caspian does not know his name.

* * *

There are whispers of a Conclave, something about a mage rebellion. Dorian finds himself in Ferelden, in Redcliffe. It is cold and smells like dog, but the tiny cottage he’s renting is warm and he can find spices in the market to add to his food.

He is there when he sees the Breach blossom across the sky, where he hears word of an explosion, one that renders the Temple of Sacred Ashes to rubble and tore a hole in the sky. The Veil grows thinner, spirits pressing against the barrier in the Fade. If he were a lesser mage, he might find his magic harder to control. 

He is also there when he sees a familiar face. He hides in the Chantry, the one place where he knows Alexius will not go. It is there he meets Felix, and it is there that they begin to plan. 

* * *

A boy walks into the Chantry and Dorian cleaves a demon in two with the blade of his staff. There is a half-second of disorienting familiarity, and memories linger in the back of his mind. He remembers hair, black as night and soft as silk, and he remembers white sheets and golden eyes, and kissing like he wants to drown.

“Caspian?” he says, instead of the clever greeting he’d had planned, and golden eyes widen as they meet his own. 

“I remember you! Minrathous, right?” Caspian asks, and Dorian opens his mouth to agree when the rift behind them spits out more demons. The warrior who’d followed him (a man, with the thickest beard Dorian had ever seen) yells out a challenge, and the demons flock to him. An elven woman hangs back, firing arrow after arrow after arrow, and Caspian throws himself into the fight with a wild abandon. 

Dorian stops casting spells, eyes on Caspian. His left hand is glowing even through his glove, a sickly green light that pulses in time with the rift. There is something graceful about the way he casts spells, half of them with his staff and half of them with lazy waves of his hand. He favors electricity, keeps a barrier over himself, and doesn’t look twice at the others fighting with him. When the last demon falls, Caspian thrusts his hand towards the rift, and the Chantry grows still and silent. 

“Well, I never thought I’d see you again,” Dorian says, stepping forward, a grin on his face. 

“I have to say the same. I barely remembered your departure. Eager to leave Minrathous?” he asks, like they are something more than a one night stand. 

“You know him?” the elven girl asks, narrowing her eyes at Dorian. He pretends he isn’t bothered. He wonders what she is thinking about the dread magister from Tevinter. 

“You could say that,” Caspian says, a sly grin on his face. Dorian thinks about promises that might not be so empty after all, opening his mouth to say something clever as the warrior behind them clears his throat. 

“We’re here about Alexius,” he says, and Dorian swallows anything else he might have said, casts another glance at Caspian, at the Herald. 

Felix slinks in through the Chantry’s doors, and between the two of them they manage to explain what they know. 

“Right. Well, I suppose we should go back to Haven,” Caspian says. His departure is abrupt, and Dorian wonders if he will see him again. 

* * *

He finds himself in Haven. The Chantry here is bigger, more elaborate, and he can hear voices coming from the makeshift war room.

“You were part of the rebellion! Do you think us mad?” a voice shouts, deep and masculine, clearly angry. 

“Do you want to leave Redcliffe’s mages in the hands of a Tevinter magister, Cullen? Because we can do that, and chase after your fucking templars if you truly think we should,” another voice says, and Dorian recognizes Caspian. He can picture the way those golden eyes would be lit up with anger, almost wishes he were in there to see it. 

“It doesn’t matter what’s better! There’s no way into the castle, and the letter specifically says Inquisitor Trevelyan needs to come alone. It’s a trap, and it’s one we can’t outsmart!” another voice says, and Dorian recognizes the accent as Antivan. 

“There is a passage,” another voice begins, Orlesian, and then drops so low that Dorian cannot hear it. The first voice starts up again, another protest, and Dorian decides that he is quite done eavesdropping. 

The door slams open against the stone wall, and every head in the room turns to him. 

“I do believe I could help,” Dorian says, and when he glances at Caspian he sees something like warmth in his eyes. 

“Then it’s settled. I’ll go to Redcliffe with a small team including Dorian, and you can sneak scouts and soldiers through the tunnels,” Caspian says. The templar- Cullen- grumbles, but there is no real protest, and they file out of the war room, leaving Dorian alone with Caspian. 

“Well, they’re certainly a charming bunch,” Dorian says, and Caspian lets out a chuckle. He steps forward, hesitates for a second before pulling Dorian in for a kiss. He smells like elfroot and peppermint, and Dorian lets his hair down before he can make himself stop. It is still silky smooth, and he still likes running his fingers through it. 

“I have a cabin, in the village. There’s also one outside the village, if you’d like some privacy,” Caspian says, as soon as he pulls back. The heat from before is back in his eyes, and it is enough to make Dorian’s knees weak. 

“I think I’d like my privacy, but only if you share it with me,” he says, and Caspian kisses him again, a laugh rumbling in his chest. 

Dorian wonders how many times he will find himself falling into bed with the Inquisitor. 

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! thanks for reading! i hope you enjoyed it, and, as always, feel free to leave kudos and/or a comment. i always do my best to respond to any comment left, and even if i can't respond, i definitely appreciate them. i hope you enjoyed the first part of dorian and caspian, although it was short. there's definitely going to be more in this series


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